


Bodyswap!

by songsaboutdrowning, spooningwithisa (upriserseven)



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: Bodyswap, Cliche, F/F, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsaboutdrowning/pseuds/songsaboutdrowning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/pseuds/spooningwithisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isa’s moving to LA and Florence is struggling with feelings untold. A kind stranger offers a hand… but there is more to her herbal remedy than meets the eye. [Florence chapters written by SAD; Isa chapters written by Rory].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably not at all what you lot were expecting, but the rest is not so much of an angstfest, I promise *crosses fingers behind back*
> 
> (also… am I psychic or am I psychic *ahem*)

I manage to get the time of my meeting with Isa wrong. It’s 4 o’clock, and it wasn’t until I got here that I remembered we changed it to 5 because she was going to meet some fancy representative from an American hip hop label. Maybe it’s how eager I was to see her that somehow got me here for 4; it didn’t occur to me to check back on our exchange, until I was sitting on the steps outside the studio at ten minutes past and wondering how Isa, who’s always early, wasn’t here yet.

The answer was there, in our text conversation, which I should have re-read  _before_  leaving the house, really. At least the market’s still open, so I accept my fate of being stuck here for at least the next half hour and I slip through the heavy door and try to lose myself in the madness that is this tunnel. I’ve come here before when I felt I was lacking inspiration, because it’s such a ridiculous collection of worlds: there is always something to make me wonder, think up a new story, or remember an experience I’d forgotten. Of course, it also sometimes sidetracks me to the point I’ll end up buying three new dresses and not write a single new lyric, but you win some, you lose some, I guess.

I hope for a moment that my shopping session can maybe get my mind off the many things weighing on it all the time – mostly to do with Isa and the way this stupid one-sided crush on her is not going away. She’s invading my thoughts, day in, day out, and I try to push her out of my brain but she always comes back with a vengeance. I’ll be viewing a house somewhere and my mind decides to fill itself with scenarios in which we’re in that exact room and I kiss her – scenarios in which she kisses me back, of course, like I can’t bear to accept the reality that no, Isa doesn’t like me that way. I’m disappointed in myself, honestly – how can you be friends with someone for many years without it turning into more, and then it all suddenly changes one day? Nothing to bring it on – you just start realising you feel differently and suddenly a text, a smile, a nod of the head take on a different meaning and  _Isa_  is at the same time the most beautiful and most excruciating three letters you could possibly hear.

Isa is going to LA in the new year. It’s getting so scarily close, I can’t believe this is a plan she’s been working on for a few months already. I have to push the thought to the back of my mind, which obviously means I think about it _constantly_. Do I do anything before she goes? Try to confess my feelings? Or do I let my best friend try to get her name out there where she can do something with her talent, and leave her to forever be my one who got away? It’s hard when another person affects your mood so much; harder still when they have no idea it’s happening, and you have to try to hide it. Although I know that we don’t have any projects coming up as a band, this is going to be the first time we are on different  _continents_.

2013 is going to be a year without Isa, and I don’t know if I can live with that.

I rapidly run away from the thoughts that once again are assailing me from the inside out and bringing a heaviness to my chest that I don’t desire; I make my way to my favourite stall: this one lady upstairs, who sells all sorts of knick-knacks, from china to old watches to videotapes (does anyone even watch them anymore?).

I don’t know how this woman makes her living: the market is so out of the way and I can’t imagine her customers ever reach double digits on any given day, so I do try to buy something from her every time I visit. I think she must be really lonely, because every time she sees me, she tries to make conversation, and no one cares that I’m famous here, because they’ve known me for years, plus I’m not even sure this lady’s all there with her head, so there is definitely no hidden agenda. She reminds me of my dead granny, and I always humour her crazy talk.

“You always look sad lately,” she says to me today. “Boy trouble?”

I don’t know how old this woman thinks I am, but she’s speaking to me like I’m fourteen and it’s not even irritating. It’s just as quaint as this place and somehow, it almost seems fitting.

“Something like that,” I smile back as I keep looking at her jewellery showcase. I pick a pair of earrings for me and a ring for Isa – oh, the irony.

“I can see something’s bugging you today, darling.”

Today? Try the last few months. Try every day, every night and all the hours in between since Isa told me she was going to move to another country for a year. Try the sense of anxiety I get at the idea of being without her; try the sense of complete self-loathing at how selfish I am being in all of this. I’m the one who’s being left alone – and I’m ashamed of thinking it because although I’m pretty famous by this point, I know the world doesn’t revolve around me.

Except for maybe this one small thing: except that maybe  _I_  revolve around Isa.

I search for the words to express what a horribly self-centred person I am. “It’s just this person I love very much is… slipping away from me. And…  _they_ … don’t seem to realise how it affects me, or ever think to ask me how I’m feeling about it.”

“You know, sometimes it’s good to look at things from someone else’s perspective.”

That is exactly what I  _don’t_  want to do. I don’t even want to think what Isa could possibly feel about me being in love with her. I don’t want to think of the consequences – not the real life ones, anyway. The only consequences I like are the ones in my fantasies, where she tells me she’s been feeling the same and she doesn’t run away.

I force my lips to stay curved upwards, so the woman thinks I’m appreciating her advice. I only break eye contact when I have to find my purse to pay. When I look up, I see her shaking a small tin at me.

“A gift,” she says. “This will give you some clarity. It cures ailments of the heart. If you take it with the object of your affection, I promise you’ll be able to see from each other’s point of view.”

She hands it to me together with my small paper bag, and it’s not until I step outside that I open the tin and sniff the tea leaves suspiciously, almost certain that her eye-opening remedy is, in fact, just weed, but all I can smell is dried orange peel and cinnamon.

I promptly forget all about it until we’re chatting and Isa has brought up the topic of LA again. It seems that every conversation heads that way nowadays; the more I don’t want to think about it, the more she brings it up – of course, it would help if she actually knew how much it kills me every time she does. I just wish that she could put herself in my shoes for a minute - we’re supposed to be each other’s constants, but she is launching herself into this new adventure, fearless, as usual, but without me. I’m just left behind – I have this feeling like the minute she gets on the plane, my “boy troubles” will eat me alive and when she comes back to visit there’s not going to be a  _me_  anymore. I will be so empty and hollow that people will stop trying to talk to me and they’ll just put me in a care home and say “That poor girl. She used to sing. Made a couple albums, one even went to number one. Such promise. Such a pity.”

And the only thing that will ever leave my lips will be the three beautiful and excruciating letters.


	2. Chapter 2

I can feel it as soon as I wake up, that’s something’s not right. My body aches, like my muscles are tense, as if I’ve been cramped in a space too small for me. There are no spaces too small for me. Normally I’d just assume I’d slept funny but no, not this time. This morning I can feel it. I force my eyes open and this is very, very wrong. This isn’t my bedroom, this isn’t even my flat. This isn’t the space I know I was definitely in when I fell asleep last night. I try to search my mind for a reason I’d be waking up in Flo’s bed (if this can even be called a bed) and when I can’t find one I’m aware that I’m scrambling up desperately, stumbling around in the dark, tripping over things. I’m panicked and I can’t even place why. It’s not wholly unusual for me to wake up in this room, but I’m so certain that I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t here last night. I wasn’t. 

I reach the wall and flick on the light, thanking all of the deities Flo’s taught me that I know my way around so well. The switch feels lower than usual at first, until it occurs to me that actually, I feel… higher than usual? I don’t know what it is that makes me turn to the mirror but I do and relief should be washing over me because surely this is a dream. That’s it. It has to be. It’s a dream or nobody told me that my life is a terrible film. Something awful aimed at pre-teens or some shitty sci-fi B-Movie. One that would head straight to DVD because it’s a plot everybody’s seen a thousand times before. But the relief doesn’t come, just further anxiety. 

I move my hand to my lips, like they do in the movies, and the reflection does the same. The reflection. Her reflection. I stare blankly at the mirror, and Florence stares blankly back at me. I shake my head quickly, not exactly sure what I think that might achieve. Am I hoping to wake up? Whatever I was trying to do, it didn’t work. Nothing happens besides a sea of blood-red hair falling over my face, distorting my vision and settling on my cheek. I brush it away and take another long look in the mirror. 

The only thing I can think in this moment is that I want to talk to Florence. I need to talk to her. Because I’m Isa but right now, I’m not, and I can’t even be sure if it’s possible for me talk to her. Logically, she’s me. Logically, she’s woken up as me and had this same realisation. But that’s logically, and I’m not sure I can trust logic right now. The only thing I’m sure of is that I need to talk to my best friend.

I move backwards, over to the corner of the room, to the mattress and the mess on the floor, trying to find Florence’s phone somewhere. I’m fully aware that it being plugged in would make far too much sense, but I check anyway. It takes more searching, more mess, but I find it eventually. It was hidden in the covers, wrapped in blankets, and when it reveals itself, it’s with a dramatic thud on the floor. 

I click the screen on and swipe. Shit. A passcode. I don’t even search my mind, just hope she’s as unimaginative as I am as I tap in 2808 and I almost want to laugh because anybody capable of a Google search could easily get into her phone if they wanted to. I dial my own number and stare at the screen. _Calling… Iza._

“Pick up. Fucking PICK UP!” 

She’s still asleep. Looking at the time, I realise it’s far too early to expect Florence to be awake. Of course it is. Why am I awake? I check the date on Florence’s phone, only now noticing that her lock screen is a picture of us. I smile before forcing myself to refocus. The date. I have something to do today. I have… I have a meeting. Oh fuck! I have a meeting in a few hours. 

I frantically call my own phone again, hoping she’ll somehow sense the urgency from across the city and jolt awake, answering my call. Of course she doesn’t. I throw the phone back down, looking around for her charger. All I can do now is wait for her.

I briefly consider trying to fall back asleep, immediately dismissing the idea because how could I ever hope to achieve that? Climb back onto Florence’s mattress; wrap myself in blankets that aren’t my own, and try to push the thoughts of this insane scenario away? There’s not a chance in hell that could ever work. I try to calm myself, and sit down for what has to be twenty seconds at most, before jumping straight back up and pacing the room, feeling more restless than I ever thought possible. 

I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed how many photos Florence has in her room. I look at the ones of us, pictures spanning almost ten years, ones I didn’t even know existed, and it soothes me, even if temporarily. I wonder if that’s why they’re here. If Florence too, takes comfort in them in times of panic. If she distracts herself by remembering when each picture was taken, what we were doing and where we were, what happened before and after. I wonder if this is how she calms herself down when she can’t sleep, or when she’s worried about something. If Florence uses the same tactics I’m trying to employ right now. I run my finger along the top of a frame (except it’s not my finger, it’s longer than mine and the nails are a teal colour that mine aren’t) and I remember the day it was taken. There’s a video of that day, I remember. A video where Florence is cutting my hair. I’m sitting on her knee in the picture and I don’t even remember it being taken, but it makes me smile for a second or two before I sigh and stare again at the phone across the room from me. 

Florence, I need you to wake up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flo and Isa have swapped bodies overnight and now they have to deal with the consequences, such as taking over the other person's commitments for the day.

 

_**Florence** _

When I wake up and notice I'm at Isa's I'm not too surprised. It wouldn't be the first time I don't remember how I got here – usually there's alcohol involved. I call out for her, but there's a deafening silence in the flat and no one else in the bed.

 My phone is on the bedside table – as I lift myself up on all fours and extend my arm, first I think the light is playing tricks with my hair, as the strands that fall around my face look more blonde than red. Then, as I hold out my hand to grab it, I see no tattoo on my middle finger, and this oddity hasn't even fully registered with me, when I notice that the display is showing me three missed calls from... myself. I most definitely don't have my own number saved on my phone, or know anyone else with my name.

 I go to put in my passcode – nothing more complicated than my birthday, predictably – and for three times it tells me I'm wrong. On an impulse, I try Isa's birthday.

 The phone unlocks.

 This is not my phone.

 

_**Isa** _

 I’m still looking around her room, taking in the small features I’ve never had the chance to explore before, when I hear the phone vibrate. I run over to it, hoping to see my own name flashing on the screen. My name and picture are there in front of me and I furiously swipe across the screen.

 “Florence? Where the fuck have you been? Do you have any idea how much I’ve been panicking while you just slept?” She sounds sleepy when she answers, which only serves to piss me off more and honestly, I didn’t realise I even  _was_  pissed off until I opened my mouth.

 “Is? Isa, what are you talking about? Why have you got my phone?”

 “Are you serious? Flo, are you serious? Have you not looked in a fucking mirror or anything?

 “Isa. What on Earth is going on?”

 “I need you to stand up and go to the mirror right now. Straight into the bathroom. Now, Florence.” I listen as I hear her clamber out of bed, a sharp intake of breath as she does so. I hope this means she’s cottoning on. I can hear the squeak of doors opening and closing and her footsteps across the floor. She’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again, her voice breaking slightly as she whispers through the phone.

 “Isa… I’m. I mean, I guess you know because I’m guessing from your voice than you’re… but how? Why? Is it just us, is anyone else…?” I can hear her slowly starting to cry and I honestly haven’t got the patience right now.

 “I don’t know, Flo.” I hadn’t even thought of that. “Listen. I know you’re freaking out, we both are. This is confusing as fuck and neither one of us has any clue how it’s happened, but we need to think clearly, okay?” She pauses for so long I wonder if she’s still there, and she sounds uncertain when she agrees but I can’t decipher her tone. “I have a meeting today. A really important meeting, actually. And… well, I think you’re going to have to go in my place. I’ll give you guidelines and stuff, it’s just that I absolutely cannot miss this.”

 “You want me to go to a meeting? Do you mean like, a businessy meeting?” I try to rein in my sigh, worried it’ll only lead to an emotional outburst on the other end of the phone.

 “I need you to, Florence. I’d rather you didn’t have to, obviously. But I need you to. Can you grab a pen and some paper? And you’ll need to take my laptop with you okay?”

 “Um, sure?”

 I relay the details to her, slowly, almost like I’m explaining them to a child. I can’t bring myself to be concerned with whether she feels patronised or not. This meeting needs to happen and if Florence has to be the one to attend it, that’s just how it has to be. If she can manage to be agreeable and professional, the tracks will hopefully speak for themselves and I can excuse myself at a later date, claiming I felt under the weather or something. It occurs to me to ask if Florence has anything she needs to do today, and a part of me is hoping she says yes so that I don’t have to sit around all day in a body that’s not my own.

 “Um, I’m not sure to be honest. I think there might be something but I can’t remember what. I should have a diary lying around there somewhere. On the mantle, maybe?”

 “How can you not know?”

 “I just don’t, Isa. You think you’d know by now I’m not the most organised person in the world. I think there’s something. I do have a date book.”

 “But you don’t even fucking know where it is. How does that help you?” I can feel myself getting annoyed again. Flo likes to say how exhausting life can be, I wonder if she even sees that she doesn’t help matters for herself. “Where are my keys, by the way? You’ve got a spare set.”

 “Oh, I’m not sure. They’re, uh, they’re around in there somewhere. In that box on my dressing table, maybe? They’re in there, Isa.”

 “Fine. I’ll look.”

 “I’m sorry, Isa.” She pauses before she speaks again, this time more rushed and like she’s treading back on herself. “I mean, about the keys. I should take care of them better, seeing as they’re for emergencies and stuff.”

 “Yeah, you should.” I hang up the phone and try to find Florence’s plans for the day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little post-script because maybe it's not the most imaginative of things, but when we swapped chapters and realised we'd both made references to Florence using her birthday as her passcode, without consulting each other, I honestly wanted to fangirl-scream in a Starbucks. I thought it was awesome and hilarious all at the same time. ~SAD


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isa must take on the role of Florence for the day.

When I eventually find Florence’s date book (which turns out to simply be a tatty notebook with important dates and times written in it), I find that I do in fact have somewhere to be. And that my driver will be here in 15 minutes. I throw on some high-waisted jeans and a blouse before heading downstairs, determined to try and dress like her, at least. As far as acting like her, I cross my fingers than I know Florence well enough to try. 

I’m going to a fitting, I think. A fitting or a consultation or some kind of meeting designed to help Flo pick her stage outfits for the next leg of the tour. She loves these things. She always comes back gushing about designers and the beautiful things she has planned, showing me pictures of her in flowy gowns and capes and various items, beaming with joy as she talks to me about stitching and colour names I’ve never heard before. 

I’m not especially excited.

A driver is a novelty, I’ll admit. To have one just for me, at least. Sometimes I crash on Florence’s ride but it’s not quite the same feeling as I get when this man knocks on the door and, honest to God, utters the words “Ms Welch, your car is here.” I’m just the sidekick. When I’m not riding with Flo I’m just happy that I’m not famous enough that public transport is an ordeal. He holds the door open, and this is all brand new to me. It hits me that when I arrive at this store in town, I’m going to be seen as Florence. I’m going to be treated like Florence. Those girls I see fussing around her, asking her every five minutes if she wants water or tea or probably their own souls if she asked, are going to be pandering to my every need. It’s going to be me they’re hero-worshipping, me they’re fussing around and practically offering their first-borns to. 

Would it be awfully wrong to relish that fact? It would, I’m sure. It would surely be really, really terrible to find so much joy in being fussed over and treated like a goddess for the day. 

I get there and a woman I’m sure I’ve seen before pulls me into a hug, tells me I look gorgeous and drags me into her store, saying something about not standing out in the street. Heaven forbid, Florence Welch out in the street with the peasants. Good God. 

It goes much as I expect, really. I try on a lot of dresses and I take a lot of pictures (and thank God I can, because if I was expected to choose on Flo’s behalf I know I’d make all the wrong decisions and I’d never live it down), I look at dozens of sketches and I listen to a lot of talk of materials and designs and an awful lot of bullshit about inspirations. Inspirations I know have been engineered to try and grab Flo’s interest. One of the dresses, a cerulean something with mesh, a high neckline and the back cut out, was supposedly inspired by a Klimt painting the designer saw in a museum when she was five years old. Does Florence actually fall for this crap or is she just humouring them? She’s always been too nice to people, trying to find connections with the weird and wounded. Or simply allowing the shallow and attention-seeking their moment in the sun. I simply nod along, and a part of me is hoping that I’ll be fed more almost-entertainingly ludicrous lines before I leave. 

One of the stick girls asks if I’d like some water. She brings over a tall, thin bottle and a tall, thin glass. I feel out of place until I remember that today, I belong here. I belong with the tall, thin girls and all of their beautifully proportioned furniture and the minimalist décor, everything so elegant and delicate. I take a few sips before going back into the dressing room, thinking that if I’m going to be Flo, be 12 foot and perfectly slim, be worshipped by these clueless girls and treated like a fucking princess by fashionistas all day, I’m going to damn well enjoy it. 

I grab the next dress off the hanger in front of me, zipping it up before laughing at myself. I don’t know how she does it, honestly I don’t. She spends her day dealing with this crap and these phonies and I don’t think I’d ever realised that before. Florence is the most genuine person I’ve ever known and I don’t think I’ve ever really considered how annoying it must be for her to be surrounded by people who are the complete opposite. It makes me really fucking glad to be the Machine.

It hits me, just for a second, how much I do love being the Machine. I don’t think Flo really gets that. Sometimes I think she doesn’t understand that this year in LA isn’t about getting away from her or her… brand, it’s simply to see what else I’m capable of. I’ll never deny that I love making these big, dramatic sounds with Flo, but it was never what I had in mind. Laydee Iza was going to be all about hip hop, rappers and dingy clubs. But that was Laydee Iza. Now I’m Isa Machine, and I’m harps and arenas and songs about ghosts. And I love that, I really do, but I want to see if I’m still cut out for Plan A. 

I really am only taking a year. I think Laydee Iza would miss Isa Machine too much, to be honest. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t growing accustomed to life’s little luxuries. I snap a picture of the reflection in front of me, hoping it’s clear enough that Florence will see the way this gown sits comfortably on her curves, and I can’t help but wonder if she knows I’ve always been planning to come back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence has to go to a business meeting as Isa. Will she come out of it victorious or sign a death warrant on Isa's DJ career?

The guy I'm meeting owns a chain of clubs all over the world and Isa is basically pitching herself as a DJ; that's all I know. She wants to have some work lined up when she gets to Los Angeles to put her name out there. The snowball effect should introduce her to more people, set more collaborations into motion and propel her to the centre of the hip-hop scene, rather than on the sidelines where she's always been.

I have her laptop: she's explained to me which tracks I should play for the guy and why: there's beats she's made, stuff she's remixed, there's even a re-invention of one of our own songs. First, however, I should get myself there without hitches, and that's already proved to be quite hard. The station has four exits and  _of course_  I wouldn't pick the right one to begin with. By the time I've figured out how to bring up Maps on my phone and make it pinpoint my location, I'm already five minutes late.

I walk into the meeting room slightly sweaty and out of breath; I haven't even had the time to look in a mirror but thankfully, Isa always wears a hair tie around her wrist, so I try to casually put my hair up as soon as I sit down, and I wonder if my smile looks as uneasy as I feel. There's a suited man with a tan that looks suspiciously fake, and what's clearly a work experience kid who looks half uncomfortable, half falsely aloof. I know I need to get Isa this gig; I owe it to her. She's been working so hard, it would be nice to see someone other than me recognise it.

“Sorry I'm late,” I murmur. “I got lost on the way here.”

“You've forgotten where it was from last time?” The man sniggers. Shit. Isa didn't mention that she's been here before. Now I just made her look like a fool. What can I say to make it right?

“I was on the phone and got distracted... was discussing dates to DJ around London before I'm off on tour again.” Boastful, maybe, but it's the best I can do to give the impression that Isa's not the kind of girl who just sits around waiting for things to happen. The fact she sought out this guy proves it, right? I try to act nonchalant as I take the MacBook out of Isa's handbag and proceed to open the lid and power it up.

Isa told me what tracks I should play for him, and he doesn't say anything at this stage. The work experience girl is just staring at me, but trying to make it look like she's doodling.

“Some of this stuff is impressive,” he says, almost against his will, when I finally look up from the computer screen. My smile this time is nothing but genuine pride for my Isa. It lasts only a split second until he proceeds to break my heart by saying, “You gotta wonder why you've made Florence + The Machine your main project.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I am not Florence right now; I cannot show that I'm offended (but fuck, I am). I think of a good, job-interview type answer, and I find myself inadvertantly saying what I  _wish_  Isa would say about me. “I think everything makes good experience, and Florence is my best friend, we wrote most of those songs together.”

“But if your true interest lies in DJing and hip hop you shouldn't make music that will pigeonhole you, is what I'm saying. It's hard to launch yourself into a different field when you've been doing one thing for so long.”

My heart feels like it's rapidly sinking into my stomach; my hands get clammy and – does Isa blush? Why have I never noticed if Isa has a tendency to blush for reasons other than alcohol? – I don't know, but my face is hot and I feel like a child who's been caught stealing cookies from the kitchen.

I think of something Isa would say, but the damage is done now, the seed of doubt planted. I wonder if she feels any resentment that I'm sucking up her time like this – maybe preventing her from following her true artistic inclinations. It's not just  _me_ , obviously, it's the band: but there's no pretending I'm not the only one who needs her.

People tend to present my band like they're dispensable, a “collective”: it's like no one takes notice that I've been playing with the same bunch of people for years. But I'm the one keeping Isa in the band, I know that – I'm the one who asked her to join in the first place. On stage, I know that I can always turn around and she will be there. When I feel like I could panic, like a fish out of water –  _what am I doing, me, a girl from South London singing to a crowd of thousands, of sweaty, muddy people who have been drinking for days; what is the point of all this; do I really want to be here?_  – her presence beside me is what gives me the strength to refocus and think we worked for this, together. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if, when she gets stage fright, she just stops at “What am I doing here” and my presence does  _nothing_  to soothe her like hers does for me? Does she feel like she would rather be in a massive studio in LA working in hip-hop?

“I actually worked with rappers long before I started Florence + The Machine,” I say, trying to highlight Isa's true calling. “And I think it's more important to keep yourself working, because you can learn from every experience and person you meet along the way.” Yeah, Isa would say that. Never one to be idle, she is.

_Am I holding her back?_

The guy says that he would like to give it a shot, on a casual work basis, but he's got a half-frown like he's not entirely happy with this outcome. He asks me to remind him when I was moving to LA and I have to fight back tears when I say, “February?”

He gives me a date he'll be in London when he'd like to meet me again, show me a contract, go through some paperwork. I check the calendar on Isa's phone – we're on tour then. We're not even in the  _country_. I have to politely decline and ask him to email me if he comes up with any alternatives, then I shake his hand and leave the room feeling like I've half destroyed my best friend's future – no, not her future. Her past, too. And her present.

I want to call Isa the minute I come out of the revolving doors, but I give myself at least until I turn the corner, in case Mr Big Shot is looking out the window and wondering why I was acting so weird.

“So how did it go?” She asks when she picks up the phone and it's weird to think it's her I'm talking to, because that is not her voice and, truth be told, it doesn't sound like my voice either.

“Erm...” I search for the words to tell Isa our very own band is getting in the way of her dreams. I decide to tell at least a partial truth. “I can't really tell. He seemed a little... sceptical.”

“Don't worry about it, Flo.” She says, and she sounds sure of herself even in someone else's body. “If this doesn't work out there's other opportunities. Listen, can you come over here? We really need to talk and I’m stuck at yours ‘til I can find my keys.”

I wonder why Isa wants to see me – see  _herself_ , really, considering the circumstances. Do I want to spend an evening looking at my doppelganger and knowing that my best friend is in there somewhere and I'm the cause of all this? Not particularly, but if Isa's in need, how am I supposed to say no?

This is how: I had completely forgotten all about it, but I have a date tonight. A fucking date with a guy I've maybe seen twice before in my life. A date to try and forget the fact I'm in love with my best friend, to keep up appearances with the outside world.

A date Isa will have to go to in my place.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isa discovers that her day isn't over just yet.

“So how did it go?” I ask when I pick up the phone, jumping straight in and not bothering with niceties. She takes a long time to consider on the other end, and I can hear her uhming and ahing before she simply says.

“Erm. I don’t really know. I can’t really tell. He seemed a little… sceptical?” She sounds tired, even more so than she did this morning.

“Don’t worry about it, Flo.” I hope I sound sure of myself, “If this doesn’t work out, there’s always going to be other opportunities. Look, can you come here? We really need to talk and I’m stuck at yours ‘til I can find my keys.” 

Silence.

“Flo?” She’s too quiet again, like she’s considering something and it’s making me nervous.

“There’s… there’s another thing I had planned for today. For tonight, even.” 

“There was nothing in your book.”

“I know, uh, the thing is it’s like, it’s sort of.” She takes a deep breath. “I have, like, a date type thing.”

“A… date? Type? Thing? Who with? Who are you dating?” I’m shocked, honestly, that Florence would be dating someone I didn’t know about, and why she’d be so nervous about telling me. “Who with? It’s not anyone I know is it? I can’t bear to be on a date with someone I know.”

“You don’t know him. I barely know him, really. He’s a friend of a friend, Sebastian.”

“Like the crab?”

“Isa…” I can’t quite determine whether I feel immediately apologetic because Florence is being so uncharacteristically stern, or because I’m being told off by my own voice. 

“Sorry. Right, his name’s Sebastian. And why can’t I reschedule this? Do you really like him? Because if you do I’m not sure me going is the best thing for it.”

“I… look, I’m going to look into this fucking swap thing and you just go on the date for me, please?”

“And what, exactly, are you doing to look into the swap?”

“I’m, uh, I’m going to ask Nate if he’s got an opinion on this. If anyone’s going to have an idea what’s going on, it’s him.” I sigh yet again. Nate, Florence’s hippy friend who claims to be a psychic and tells me every time he sees me that I have a ‘negative aura’. He’s a dreadlocked guy, with one dodgy looking tattoo of a crystal on his neck and who’s been wearing the same Fleetwood Mac shirt every time I’ve seen him in the five years Flo’s known him, and who was playing Enya at a ridiculously obnoxious volume the one time I went to his flat. He’s not my favourite person.

“You think Nate is going to know how to help us?”

“I know you don’t believe him, Is, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?” 

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Flo?” 

“No. Look, I’ll go there and you go on the date, please? Plus, it’ll keep you out of the house. Grace’ll be home later and I’d rather she didn’t pick up on anything weird. She will if she spends too much time with you. Please, Isa? Please?”

“Fine. But we’re meeting as soon as I’m done with Sebastian. And if Nate’s no help he’ll have plenty of need for those fucking healing crystals.”

I hang up, throwing Flo’s phone down a little too hard on the mattress for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

The next thing I know I’m standing in front of her mirror, looking into the chaos Florence calls a wardrobe. What would Florence even wear on a date? Honestly.

I can hear Grace downstairs, pottering about in the kitchen and I’m weighing up the pros and cons of asking her advice on an outfit when she knocks on the door.

“Flossy? You in there?” I force a deep breath (fuck, Florence has got powerful lungs) before pulling an oversized t-shirt over my, _her_ , underwear and answering the door. 

“Are you freaking or something? I’ve hardly spoken to you all day.” She steps into the room and hands me a mug of tea. I take a sip before remembering Florence doesn’t take sugar. I try to hide that I’m not enjoying the taste before I take another sip and set the mug down on the mantle. I watch Grace as she moves to lean against it. 

“Gracie? I have no idea what to wear.” She raises an eyebrow at me and I immediately feel the need to defend myself. “I’m not sure why I’m nervous, I just am? It’s quite ridiculous, really.” I fake a laugh.

“Nah, it’s not. This is just your first attempt at a date as a method of coping? Your first attempt at getting over the Isa thing. Wear whatever, you look good in everything, you bitch!” Her widespread grin reminds me of Flo, “Just go and enjoy yourself with that cute boy and don’t think about Isa. Don’t talk about her either; you’re like a smitten schoolgirl.”

“Can you pick an outfit out for me while I shower please? I can’t think straight right now.”

I don’t even really wait for her to answer before I run out and into the bathroom. I glance at the mirror, briefly forgetting the face looking back at me won’t be my own. I avert my eyes as quickly as I can and hastily remove the few items of clothing on this body. It feels wrong to even be seeing Florence like this without her permission, but if I’m going to do this for her I’m going to do it right.

_“The Isa thing.”_

What does that even mean? I shake away the memories of the day, of the pictures and trinkets scattered around her room, the fact that I have this presence in her house. Surely that’s not “the Isa thing”? She doesn’t? Is Florence making herself date to push aside feelings for me? 

I detach myself from the idea and cross my fingers that Grace will just leave the outfit laid out for me. I think about the soundtrack to our B-Movie, and decide I’d need something really fucking dramatic before the shower scene ends.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Isa is posing as her on a date, Florence tries to undo what she's done. Spoiler: she's not terribly successful.

I wait until the sun starts to set to make my way back to the shloft, because I don't really want people to see Isa on the street, stop me, and start conversations about things and people I don't know. I just... don't particularly want to interact with people as Isa, that's all. I know how she speaks, I know how she moves, and I memorise those things and keep them for myself in my heart, but I'm not going to be happy about replicating them in some sort of grotesque pantomime. What I want to do, is find the woman who gave me the tea leaves and ask her what the fuck happened and how it managed to get our... souls?... to switch into each other's bodies. Good thing it's Saturday, as well, because the market isn't on every day and imagine having to live swapped like this for more than one day? No: I will get her to tell me how I reverse it, and I will do it tonight.

The door seems even heavier in this smaller frame I have at the moment; I feel I'm making twice the effort to push it open. But once I do, I shoot upstairs like I'm trying to beat a world record – Isa's heels echo on the floorboards and I don't turn around to look at anyone, even though they must all be staring as this bewildered small person who enters a vintage market and doesn't actually look at any of the merchandise.

I only stop when I'm in front of her. She's bent over the cash register, reading something, oblivious to the outburst that's just about to take place.

“What did you do to me?” I hiss it, not scream it because I don't really want to attract unwanted attention from the hipster girl in the stall opposite. I just look at the old lady with what I hope is a menacing, raised eyebrow. Isa's fucking tiny but if you mess with her and she's not happy, you can bet she will let you know. She can be as frightening as any normal-sized person; I hope that's what I'm conveying right now.

The woman looks up, and she's either moving very calmly or my impatience makes it appear like she's raising her head in slow-motion. “Sorry, sweetheart.” She says benevolently. “You must have the wrong person.”

“It's _Florence_!” Does she know my name? Or am I just the weirdo who hangs around here a lot and likes floral prints? “Tall, red hair? I bought jewellery from you yesterday? I buy stuff from you all the time. You gave me some leaf tea...”

“Oh, that's you? Sorry, I didn't expect the exchange to happen with another girl.” She gives me a quick once-over, and raises an eyebrow to match mine.

The _exchange_ , she calls it. Like we're trading goods. Like we're haggling at a bloody vintage fair.

“I didn't expect an exchange to happen AT ALL! Me and Isa switched bodies overnight and you didn't think to warn me?” I have to stage whisper because if I said any of this out loud, I'd probably be removed from the premises.

She shrugs. “If I had warned you, you wouldn't have believed me, dear.”

Well, that's probably true, but I don't back down.

“So better to talk in riddles, then? Me and my best friend have swapped places. She's on a date with a guy that _I_ was meant to be on. I want this sorted by tonight. Please.” I add automatically, even though I don't mean it.

“You drank the tea with your friend instead of with this boy? Were you _listening_ to what I said yesterday?”

I lose it. I don't think I've ever been angrier at anyone in my life – or maybe it's desperation. I can't quite recognise this feeling – it's one quarter being misunderstood, one quarter feeling completely powerless, and one half _Isa how do I explain this to Isa she will hate me what if we can't sort it out_.

“There is no boy, you old lunatic! I want to be with Isabella, ok?” It's the first time I've told this to anyone, save for confessing it to Grace one time when too much wine had loosened up my tongue. “The date was just a cover-up. I just don't want _her_ to be on it!!!”

“The spell's not forever, sweetheart.” I shiver. She actually called it a _spell_. “The whole point is to settle discontent. It'll vanish when you both confront the issue. But it requires a sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” I think for a minute she's talking about death and I feel the colour drain from my face, my lips. What the hell have I got myself into? What have I got _Isa_ into?

“You both need to give something up. And you need to agree on what it is. You can't, for example, say you'll give up your little studio next door if she doesn't agree. And it can't be something meaningless either, like painting your nails.”

“This makes no fucking sense.” I tell her through gritted teeth.

“You'll see when you talk to her. I have to close up shop now.”

She starts moving from behind the cash register, and even though all she's holding is a little padlock and a key, I just don't want her to come any closer, and above all I don't want her to touch me, even if by mistake. I run out the side exit with tears in my eyes, I look for my own number in Isa's contacts and send a text.

_Going to your flat for the rest of the night. Whatever time you finish, come down please? I need to talk to you._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Isa goes on Florence's date.

He seems like a nice enough guy, initially, and I can’t figure out why Florence hasn’t mentioned him to me before. Well, maybe I can. He’s nice, but there’s something in me wondering if he’s too nice. I’m critical of the guys that Flo dates anyway (because honestly, all the therapists in the world couldn’t analyse why exactly Florence picks these idiots) but the lingering feeling that she doesn’t even want to be with him, the idea that she’s proving some kind of point, it all makes me question she’s chosen this guy. He’s not the type of guy she usually goes for. He’s blonde, for a start. Not that I’m reading too much into that if I can help it. And most importantly, he’s boring. The guys Flo dates may be unworthy morons but they’re not usually boring. Teamed with the fact that I suspect he’s a fan, pretending not to be, I can’t help but wonder how awful it would for me to sabotage this. I have much more important things to be doing, like trying to find out everything I can about “the Isa thing” or, I don’t know, getting my fucking body back? 

I turn to look at him and he’s gazing over at me like a lovesick puppy. I order another glass of wine and Sebastian (fucking… Sebastian) asks me if I’m enjoying it. Are you enjoying the wine? I mean what kind of question is that? I nod curtly and wait for my drink. I have no idea what to ask him. I don’t know what Flo knows about him and what she doesn’t. What conversations have they already had? 

“So, um. Sebastian. Were you named after anyone?” Oh. Smooth, Summers. Fucking smooth. I have a sudden urge to blurt out that The Little Mermaid is one of Florence’s (my?) favourite films and there’s no way she’s not singing Under The Sea every time she looks at him. And that, for that reason alone, I sincerely hope he’s not hoping to get his leg over. I clamp my mouth closed and laugh quietly to myself. 

“Um.” He looks at me for a second, incredulous. Surely he’s been asked about his ludicrous name before. “No? My parents just liked it, I suppose.” The waiter arrives with my drink and I shoot him a smile. He leans in, just a little bit too close, and I can feel his breath on me as he speaks.

“I’m sorry about this, I know it’s so unprofessional of me and you’re just out, living your life, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m a fan. My wife and I had our first dance to one of your songs.”

“Really? That’s so lovely! Thank you so much.” My smile is genuine this time. Not for myself, of course, but for Florence. I know it gets annoying for her at times, not feeling like she can really be herself anymore (oh, the irony), but it’s amazing to finally understand that rush of joy she gets when people say things like that. It feels self-pitying to think it, and honestly I don’t even mind most of the time, but we don’t get that in the Machine. Only the hard-core fans would really recognise us, know our names and what we play, they’re the only ones who may actually approach us. For a minute, I realise that this is why Florence doesn’t get frustrated with the hassle, why she doesn’t mind being in the public eye and knowing her every move could be documented. She brushes it off for those little moments, when people remind her of what music means and what it can do. I’m strangely overjoyed to finally get that, but I feel my smile start to fade when I turn back to Sebastian. 

“Ugh that must be so annoying” I hadn’t noticed his stupid, overly posh accent before but it’s starting to grate on me it’s like nails on a chalkboard, “not even being able to go on a date without somebody bothering you.”

“He wasn’t really bothering me.” I’m cut off by the phone in my pocket vibrating and I don’t even bother to excuse myself before I take it out and look at it. It’s a text from Grace, and for a second I’m not sure whether I should read it. I can’t decide if looking at Florence’s inbox is a huge, unnecessary invasion of privacy. 

_Going well? Hope you’re not talking about Isa. Get over her and get some Xx_

I think about typing a reply before I realise I have no idea what to say. I don’t know how Florence would respond; I don’t know how she’s been responding to ‘the Isa thing’. Just like that, my desire to leave this place is too much for me to handle, so I text Flo instead.

_You said whenever I’d finished? I’m finished. This guy’s a tool. And not my priority. I’m coming to you now._

I put the phone back where it was, grab the jacket from the back of my chair, and throw a twenty pound note down on the table. 

“Sorry Sebastian,” I emphasise his name, “that was a text from a friend of mine. Looks like an emergency. I have to go to her.”

He looks at me, forlorn and pathetic, before his eyes light up and he practically screams his next suggestion, 

“Can we do this again sometime? I had a fantastic time with you tonight, Florence.” Really? You had a nice time watching me drink wine while I avoided eye contact? 

“I don’t know. I’m, uh, so busy over the next few months. I’ll call you when I get back from the US, yeah? And if you’re still interested maybe we could try this again?”

I don’t wait for his response before I pick up the bag from the floor and leave, just about remembering to throw a wave over my shoulder as I head out of the door. I need to get to Florence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence tries to tell Grace about what happened. And like everything else in her day so far... it does not go very well.

When I get into Isa's flat, I feel like I've been awake for five days straight. I'm absolutely drained, both physically and emotionally, and no closer to resolving this situation than I was when I got up this morning. I wonder what Isa's getting up to with Sebastian, wonder if she knows the ridiculousness of the situation: she's now facing the guy I was using to get her out of my head. And because she doesn't know that, I bet she's going to try and make me come across really well. If he makes a pass at her... well, he'll have kissed Isa before I had a chance to (I'm not really counting all the jokey, drunken snogs we've shared, right now).

Whatever happens, she'll be at least another couple of hours, and I'm not too sure how to spend this time in a way that doesn't lead to utter self-destruction. I should have binned that stupid tin, shouldn't believe in these old wives superstitions. I should behave like an adult and not like a smitten schoolgirl.

I think a shower might calm my nerves; the sound of the water will probably drown out the sound of my own guilt. I take off my dress without really thinking about the gesture, until I look down and see boobs much more generous than I'm used to. This morning maybe I got dressed so mechanically that I didn't really stop and appreciate the fact I could stare at the body I've desired for months with no one to scorn me or judge me for it. But now it's looking back at me from the mirror and I'm almost afraid to remove my bra and knickers, like I'm doing something naughty and slightly voyeuristic. I take my clothes off around Isa all the time and it's taken me this long to realise that she doesn't do the same around me. If I step into the shower, I'm going to have to deal with... parts of Isa that I've only seen in my dreams so far.

I close my eyes and quickly remove my underwear; I wonder if I can make it to the bathroom without opening them, but the answer is an obvious no seeing as within five seconds I've walked right into a doorframe with a resounding “Ow!”

I avoid the bathroom mirror and feel an odd relief, like I've done the right, moral thing. But as the hot water starts trickling down my back and I forget my current predicament, I can't help looking down in fascination and my mind brings up a philosophical question I never thought I'd ask: if I touch myself now, am I doing things to Isa, or am I masturbating?

Focus, Florence, focus. There will be no inappropriate touching other than with a sponge and some shower gel. You will find out what Isa feels like the  _proper_  way, or nothing. But then, you might be stuck in this body forever, because that old hag's advice on how to switch back was basically nonsense, so you might as well get to know it. Yourself.  _My_ self?

And then again, Florence, you've had a really long, hard day...

-

After I've washed, I feel like myself again - that's rich considering I'm currently inhabiting my best friend's body, maybe I should just say I feel slightly more human and comfortable. The thought won't stop haunting me that I could actually be stuck inside her forever, and how the hell are we going to cope then? Will I have to go to LA instead of Isa - will she never get her big break in hip hop? Because I can't even switch on an MPC, let alone pretend that I have half of her level of knowledge of all things technical.

This is all my fault for believing in a stupid superstition. The woman gave me a way out, what sounded like a solution, and I may just have gone and ruined both our lives out of selfishness. So I do what I would in any situation of panic: I call Grace. She'll understand. She'll know I wouldn't make this up.

When she picks up the phone she sounds surprised, but friendly. “Hey Iz, what's up?”

“Have you got a minute? I have something I need to tell you. It's probably best if you sit down.”

“...okay?” I don't really know how much Isa and Grace talk to each other when I'm not around, so my request may be a complete surprise to her, just like it could be something she's familiar with.

I take a deep breath and I say, “It's Florence.”

She doesn't understand. “What's Florence? Did something happen to her?”

“No, I mean it's me.  _I'm_  Florence. Something happened and... our souls got swapped around. Isa's currently in my body, on a date with Sebastian.”

Grace tenses up, and I tell her the whole story. I tell her about the market, I tell her about the woman, the switch, the things I had to do today. Halfway through, Isa sends me a text that she's on her way back home, and somehow I manage not to lose my train of thought and move on to telling Grace about the most recent development: the sacrifice.

She listens, and she doesn't interject, but there is something icy in her voice when I finally get to the end of my misadventures and instead of advice, I get annoyance.

“Isa, why do you like playing pranks on me so much? I thought April Fools had been enough?”

“No, Gracie, it really  _is_  me. I know I don't sound like me, but it's really me. Look, I'll prove it to you. When I was 8, I drew all over the bedroom walls and blamed it on you because you were younger and didn't know any better.”

“ _Everyone_  knows that story, Isa. Did Florence put you up to this? Because it's not funny.”

I feel the humiliation sting – yet another reminder that all of this is my fault. I didn't ask for this to happen, but if I can't get Grace to believe me, then how am I going to live the rest of my life, and how is Isa?

“Have you really not picked up anything different with...”  _do I say “me”? Do I say “Florence”?_  “...your sister today?”

“Well... she didn't seem interested in choosing an outfit for her date, and she made me pick?”

I see an opening. “And that's something I'd never do, right?”

“Look, Iz, for all I know, you're both in on this and making me pick an outfit was all for show. I wouldn't put it past you. I mean Flo. I mean-”

“What reason would I have to lie to you? Just to give you a party story? Where you can embarrass me for the rest of -”

The buzzer goes off.

“I have to go, Gracie, Isa's back.” I feel a lump in my throat as I realise that I may never be able to tell my sister I love her with my own voice, hug her with my own body, look down at her from my usual height. I don't think Isa would ever say “I love you” to Grace at the end of a phone call, but I say it anyway, and I hang up before I can hear her reaction.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence and Isa finally meet up.

It’s somehow not as strange as I thought it might be. The figure sitting in front of me when I arrive is my own, and that should be uncomfortable, but it’s not. I’m not sure if I’ve just dealt with this situation a little too calmly, or Florence’s body can’t handle two glasses of wine like mine can, but I’m oddly at ease with the whole thing. I can read my own expression (which is bizarre) and I know that she’s not. She’s anxious, she’s probably more anxious than I’ve ever known her and that’s a completely logical response. But, as usual, the idea of Florence being anxious fills me with the need to calm her down. I’m just not sure how to do that this time. This is my first day at the body swap rodeo. 

“Stop biting my nails, Welch.”

“Sorry.” She looks sheepish, but she smiles at me before looking away. She’s sitting cross legged on the floor, like a child, and I sit down opposite her. 

“Did he say anything? Have any genius ideas?”

“I didn’t go to him.” I open my mouth to interrupt her but she talks over my thoughts, “don’t hate me. Promise you won’t hate me.”

“Why would… Florence what did you do?” She shifts uncomfortably, and I try to urge her to go on without seeming impatient, without seeming like I'm telling her off.

“Yesterday, before we met up I... I was early so I was just wandering around the market and I ended up going to up that old woman and she gave me some tea.”

“Gave it to you?”

“Yeah. We were talking and she said I looked sad. She told me the tea would give me some clarity, help to see… well, I was having a problem and she said it would help me see things from somebody else’s point of view.”

“A problem?” The Isa thing. I sigh and drag my knees up to my chest, “does this problem have anything to do with me?” She looks in my direction, stuttering as she tries to respond. She drops down in defeat. 

“You talked to Grace?” I nod. It’s small and I worry she might not have even seen it, but somehow I know she has. 

“Flo, I’m confused about exactly what you’re saying? What do you think happened here?”

“She gave me this tea so that it would help me see things from your perspective, I think? I don’t know. She said clarity and so maybe I just thought it would be soothing or something? I don’t know what I thought. I guess I just wanted something to make me feel better about the idea of losing you and the idea of being so hopelessly fucking-“ she stops, obviously out of breath and I can see tears welling, “I just… she never mentioned magic tricks and switching bodies and that she meant it literally. And believe me, if she had, I wouldn't have done it. It's not worth it. I've weighed you down enough, to be honest. I didn't need all this.” 

“Weighed me down?”

“That meeting? The one you had today? It made me think. He kept saying to me how I… you, you were too talented to waste your energy on one project, a project that doesn’t even show off all of your talent. On me. And he’s right.”

“Well, I hardly think my energy’s been wasted on you, Flo. Do you think he’d really be giving me the time of day if it wasn’t for you?” 

She barrels straight ahead, ignoring my comments altogether. 

“The woman claims... Well, she claims we'll switch back if we both make a sacrifice. We need to give something up. She didn't say much else at all. I have no idea what she meant by that or if it's even true, but... I thought maybe if we put our brains together we'd come up with something.”

“You know, if this was a movie, the only way to break the spell would be with a kiss.” It was supposed to be a joke, an attempt at lightening the mood. I realise it was the worst thing to say, when she just looks in my direction and sighs.

“A lot of things might be different if this was a movie, Isa.”

I’m not sure what to say to her, and I realised I must have paused too long because she takes a breath and I can tell she’s terrified I’m never going to forgive her. I’m quieter than I ever intended when I speak.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d be angry, that you’d think I should’ve picked up on the warning or something.” I look up at her and she realises what my real question was. “Oh. You're moving away, Iz... I didn’t want to strain our relationship and have you leave on bad terms. Well, not necessarily bad, but you know... awkward terms? I honestly wasn’t going to say anything about it if this switch hadn't happened. And now I'm thinking of what we can possibly sacrifice and... I don't think you'd be willing to just stay in London, would you?” 

I shake my head and sigh. It’s not the same annoyed, exasperated sigh I feel I’ve been repeating all day, though. I’m just sad this time; I just don’t know what to make of this. I’m taken aback by all of this, and mostly by feelings I never realised I had. When I spoke to Grace and the idea of Florence having feelings for me entered my head, it felt right. It felt like I’d just been waiting for this, like I’d been waiting to hear it, like I’d been holding my breath for it without ever even knowing it. It felt logical and almost perfect and the last thing I wanted to do was go on a date for her. Even if he’d been nice, I’m sure I would’ve screwed it up because suddenly the idea of Florence dating somebody is so awful to me. 

“How long? How long have you, uh, felt like this?” She doesn’t answer. She just lets a tear fall and turns away from me. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t. Did you really think this would be the end of our friendship? You sound like you thought we’d never recover from it.”

“I didn’t think we would. I honestly didn’t. I didn’t think I could tell you that I’m in love with you,” she stumbles over the words, and I realise it’s probably the first time she’s ever let herself say them out loud, “and you’d just be okay with it. I didn’t think I could tell you that whenever I think about you leaving for LA I just feel empty and I’m not sure anything would ever be able to fill that space because it is a perfectly Isa-sized hole and this is all new to me but-“ I can’t listen to her speak anymore. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get a word in again, and I only really know of one sure fire way to shut someone up.

So I lean over and kiss her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence and Isa negotiate sacrifices.

_**Florence** _

When I open my eyes, it's her I see. The face that I've seen in the mirror for the past 24 hours with the big doe eyes full of wonder and mystery, is back in front of me and the relief clutches at my chest and I know I'm going to cry.

I have no clue why we're swapped back, but the worst is over, and I still have all my limbs and so does she; her thumb lingers on my cheek and she suddenly kisses away my tears, which makes me feel better than anything she could have said. Isa doesn't  _do_  words; all she does is gestures. She's not the kind of person you could ever imagine uttering sweet nothings, but you can tell when she cares. And she cares. About me. But not enough that she will stay in London for me, so I guess we're both agreed... it's her I'm giving up.

I lean forward and search for her lips, because I want to taste her again, but she stops me, pushing her fingertips lightly against my shoulder.

“I'm not taking that risk. We only  _just_  switched back,” is all she says. She doesn't really mention whether or not she's disappointed we can't do it again.

“I don't understand.” Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth. “I gave something up. I'm giving  _you_  up. You're moving to another country and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. But you... you haven't given anything up.”

Isa shrugs. “Can't we just be happy that we're each back in her own body? This could have been much worse, you know. We could have been stuck forever.”

It seems ages ago that I'd been considering that possibility, but it's only been a couple of hours. I'm still half expecting to wake up with a jolt and find myself in bed, alone, covered in sweat, because none of this makes sense. None of it. But I still come out defeated. I lose my best friend. And she hasn't sacrificed a thing.

My emotions veer to anger and frustration, suddenly. The tears that sting my eyes are no longer relief, but plain powerlessness.

“I'm going home.” I declare.

I know I'm being stubborn, but nothing's going to change if I stay here anyway; nothing is in my control. Isa decides when to kiss me, when  _not_  to kiss me, whether she goes to Los Angeles... and apparently, how I'm spending the rest of the night, because she puts her hand on my knee and, with the most serious look I've ever seen on her face, she tells me, “Like hell you are. We need to talk.”

 

**_Isa_ **

Florence just looks at me, and I can’t remember the last time I struggled to read her but I find myself unable to predict her next move. I don’t know if she’s angry with me, if she’s going to stay, or if she’s going to storm out right now and never speak to me again. I search for my voice, finding it just when I worry it might be too late.

“You can’t deny it. We have too much to talk about for me to let you walk out right now. If you leave now, this conversation will be swept under the rug. We both know that.”

“Isn’t it best there? You clearly don’t know what you want.”

Her voice breaks at the end, but there’s still a little bit of spite there. A little bit of spite and a lot of pain. And I don’t even really have a defence for that. I know what I want, I know I do, but I wonder if I’m just royally screwing her around and that’s not fair. I look at her, knowing she’s thinking the same thing. She was willing to let me go, and I drew her back in. Even now, just a few minutes ago, I kissed away her tears and wouldn’t let her make another move. I know I'm giving mixed signals but I can't seem to stop. 

“I want… I do. I do know what I want.” There’s a part of me hoping we can communicate like we always have. That I won’t have to say a word for her to know exactly what I’m thinking and feeling. Even if I’m confused, I want her to understand. I want her to understand why I need her to stay without hearing the words.

I can hear her breathing, and she moves to sit back down to me.

“You didn’t give anything up. She said we needed to make sacrifices and I’m giving you up, I’m giving up my heart and you didn’t give me anything.” I’m not sure if she actually is trying to prompt me with her repetition, but she manages it.

“I gave you more than I ever thought I would.” She snaps her head to look at me. You’ve started talking now Isa, you’ve got to carry on. “Look, I’m going to LA. I’m sorry but that’s not going to change. But something’s different. I can tell you that.” Open my mouth to tell her that I’m not sure how to say it, how to express what exactly is different, but the words I plan seem weak and hollow, so I close my lips together and hope once more that she can understand what’s changed within me.  

Florence bites her lip as she looks at me, and I know that for a moment, neither one of us is sure if I’ve finished speaking. We just look at each other, and there’s nothing awkward or unspoken. I break the eye contact; suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that less than an hour ago, that was me in there. Naturally. Of course I wouldn’t start to get freaked out by this whole situation until it was over.

“Is it really fucked up that I think this twisted little nightmare scenario might have actually helped us? It might somehow have been a good thing.” 

“Oh yeah, best day of my life. It’s done me a world of good.” Florence pretends to laugh at the idea, and I know there’s no point trying to explain my logic while it’s all still so raw. “I just don’t see why we’ve switched back.”

“I know you don’t.” I reach out for her hand and she gives it to me without question. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. Really tired. Let’s just sleep and think things through in the morning, when our heads are clearer?”

I can tell she’s not crazy about the idea, but the way her muscles start to relax show me she’s giving in to it. I wonder if we’re going to fall asleep with the same thought.

_I’d better wake up as me._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of the Bodyswap rodeo.  
> Yes, they've swapped back... but nothing is quite sorted out yet.

The next morning, she wakes me up with a kiss on my forehead. I can feel her thumb stroke my cheek and I keep my eyes closed just a few seconds longer and try to pretend that this happens every day. It feels more intimate than our drunken make-out sessions and it feels protective, and I think “I could get used to this”.

Reality hits soon after, as our chat from last night comes rushing back. Isa will want to talk. We have to decide where we go from here, don't we? With her suddenly being aware that her move to LA means something different to me than she thought, there's going to be a very painful “where do we stand?” talk, I can just feel it.

I try to buy some time: I open my eyes, almost scared that I'll see my own face staring back at me, but it's most definitely Isa, and I can feel myself smile, the most natural response to seeing her hovering so close.

“You're you, and I'm me,” I say. “Today's better than yesterday already. Did the night bring any ideas as to why we switched back?” My tongue is too pasty for such a convoluted question, and she doesn't laugh.

“I didn't really sleep much.” Now, with Isa, this is the norm, but I can't help feeling personally responsible anyway.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, even if I'm really not looking forward to it. “Or do you want to come with me to the market and help me strangle that woman with my own hands?”

-

We go in straight through the side entrance, this time, and once again she's hunched over a crossword or sudoku of some kind, and when she looks up and sees me, she seems almost alarmed for a minute. When she notices Isa walk in behind me, though, her momentary panic turns into a smirk.

“So, which is which?” She asks with the same complicitous tone as a granny who slips you a sweet you shouldn't eat before a meal.

I am so unenthused, I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep my cool. Isa isn't helping, she's making no mystery that she thinks this visit wasn't necessary, but I'm determined to understand what happened.

“We're back,” I explain. “Only I don't know how.”

“Well, it  _has_  been over a day now.” She responds, talking in riddles yet again.

Isa gets distracted looking at some trinkets in a cabinet and I have to blindly reach out for her, grab her hand and jerk her back to attention.

“ _She_  hasn't given anything up.” I tilt my head towards Isa to demonstrate. “There was no mutual agreement.”

“She didn't need to, sweetheart. The spell only lasts one day.”

Isa and I shout “WHAT?” at exactly the same time, only Isa's is directed at me, and even though I'm still looking at the old woman, I can feel the fury in Isa's eyes burning holes into my skin.

“That's not what you said to me,” we continue, again in perfect unison.

The witch's eyes dart from me to Isa, and back, like she's watching a tennis match, and she has the cheek to shrug, and conclude, “All that fuss for a switch when you're acting like you're the same person!”

“I  _need_  an explanation,” I start saying; my voice breaks and I hate myself for being so emotional all the time. Maybe I really should react like Isa and think 'doesn't matter; we're back' but I would feel even more of a fool if I backed down now. I sense Isa taking a step closer to me. She still doesn't want to be here, but I feel this has piqued her interest too, somehow.

“The spell breaks after 24 hours, darling, on its own. You don't have to do anything.” She explains patiently – as if this isn't contradicting everything that she told me yesterday.

“You said it required... a sacrifice?”

“Well, you two weren't going to talk if I hadn't said that that, were you?” I can tell that she's not feeling the least bit guilty. Playing with people's lives seems to be just a pastime to her. That's how bored she is – and that should teach me to humour crazy people just out of some sort of kinship!

“And as I understand, it's worked. You're here together. I'm guessing the date wasn't all that, then, darling?” She turns to Isa, whose jaw drops in slow motion.

“Florence, just  _how much_ did you tell this woman?” She scowls at me, but then she surprises me by looking at the witch and saying, quite firmly, “Look, she's really upset about this. Can you not just  _actually_  explain how this whole thing went, because we've both got enough trouble sleeping as it is, to be honest, and I just want to get on with my life.”

Trust Isa to sound completely selfish and also somehow caring at the same time.

The woman seems to actually react with a bit of human compassion, for once (are witches human?). She looks at Isa and the heavy sarcasm is gone from her voice when she invites her to recount the events of last night.

“I got back to my flat – she was already there,” she nods towards me briefly, “she told me what you'd said, about the sacrifice thing, and then we discussed... other stuff.”

“So you just talked?” The woman squints her eyes at us like she can sniff the lie.

“Well... I did... I did kiss her.” Isa replies. Her voice just became really, really small and I wonder if she regrets that kiss. Or if she's even worked out why she did it in the first place, because I'm still waiting for this big talk she wants to have, since we came straight here after we woke up.

“How did that feel, love?” She's asking Isa, but I see a predatory flash in the way she looks me up and down. What the fuck. “I mean how did  _you_  feel?” She corrects herself.

I can see the hint of a smile tugging at Isa's lips, but she's quick to mask it, it's almost like I can hear her brain's order to look stern and indignant.

“I don't really see what difference that makes?” Isa's trying very hard to act like she doesn't care, but really, she just wants to avoid sharing her most intimate feelings with a stranger. All the stranger does, however, is raise an eyebrow – clearly, she's not backing down. “I felt like... I felt like I should have done it a long time ago, okay?”

“Sounds to me like you gave plenty up, sweetheart.” The witch concludes. Have I become invisible? I'm impressed with the amount of respect Isa got from this woman in one meeting, when I'm still being patronised like I don't matter.

Isa shakes her head; she doesn't understand.

“I'm sure it took a fair bit of courage to do that,” the woman shrugs by way of explanation. “One could almost say you gave up your pride.”

The smallest of gasps escapes Isa's mouth, recognition dawning in her eyes as she looks down in... defeat?

“Does that answer your question, Florence?” My name just sounds wrong in her mouth, but she's back to giving off those granny vibes that made me like her in the first place.

“I guess?”

“Or you could just accept the fact that you were always going to switch back, darling. Whatever works for you.” She frowns.

“Forget it,” I say, exasperated. “Forget I ever asked.” I make to leave, and right now I don't even care if Isa follows suit. As I walk through the side door I have to brush past two girls who have just come in and started looking around.

“Don't buy anything from  _her_ ,” I tell them, loud enough for the old woman to hear me. “And if she offers you a gift, don't take it. She's a witch!”

They look at us for a moment, then at each other with some sort of secret grin that reminds me of how Isa and I communicate sometimes.

-

The next day, Isa wakes me up by chucking the Metro on the bed, folded on a very specific page. Their “Guilty pleasures” section is titled “Florence Welch believes in witchcraft!”

_Outlandish singer Florence Welch does it again. In the past, she has declared that she can see ghosts and she once expressed an interest in dating 2Pac's hologram. Now, we can reveal that she is scared of witches as two eyewitnesses reported seeing Welch and Isabella Summers, also of Florence + The Machine, run away from a vintage market after warning bystanders that one of their longest standing vendors, a 70-year old woman named only as Miriam, practices dark magic. Welch and Summers were then seen retreating hand in hand into Summers' flat in Crystal Palace._

I groan, hide my head under the pillow and mumble into it, “If there's any of that tea left can we post it to this  _journalist_ , please?”

I hear Isa's laugh getting closer as she moves down to kiss my neck, and then I remember how I ended up sleeping here for the third night in a row, and maybe the future doesn't seem so bleak.  


End file.
